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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23386579">When I have Fears That I May Cease to Be</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/kristsune/pseuds/kristsune'>kristsune</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, Historical Figures, John Keats - Freeform, Martin loves John Keats as much as I do, Statement Fic, Takes place somewhere in season 3, jonah really just loved correspondence, letters to Jonah</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 15:21:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,237</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23386579</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/kristsune/pseuds/kristsune</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin finds a statement left on his desk, and cannot help but read it.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>33</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>When I have Fears That I May Cease to Be</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/HowShouldIKnowboutLife/gifts">HowShouldIKnowboutLife</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This fic is 100% thanks to <a href="https://howshouldiknowboutlife.tumblr.com/">howshouldiknowboutlife</a> who reminded me that the Magnus Institute was founded in 1818 and John Keats, historical figure, whom I love, didn't die until 1821, so this just really needed to happen. and lbr, attractive men flocked to Jonah, and wrote to him extensively.<br/>This was really fun, and I hope you enjoy.<br/>Title is the first line to one of Keats' unnamed poems.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>[CLICK]</p><p> </p><p>[DOOR OPENS]</p><p> </p><p>[MARTIN ENTERS]</p><p>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Oh! Uhh.. Hello. Not entirely sure why you’re already running - oh, what’s this? </p><p> </p><p>[PAPERS SHUFFLING]</p><p> </p><p>Statement of John Keats - Woah! Wait, what?! <b>The</b> John Keats?</p><p> </p><p>[CHAIR SCUFFS AS MARTIN SITS DOWN HEAVILY]</p><p> </p><p>I’d say I was surprised, but at this point? I don’t even know if I am anymore. Christ. </p><p> </p><p>[DEEP SIGH]</p><p> </p><p>Well, I can’t say I’m not curious now. It’d be rude not to read it, right?</p><p> </p><p>[CLEARS THROAT]</p><p> </p><p>Martin Blackwood, Archival Assistant at the Magnus Institute, recording statement number - oh, there doesn’t seem to be one… Huh, oh! Yes, right. Statement of John Keats, taken from a letter sent to Jonah Magnus on the 30th of October 1819. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>MARTIN (STATEMENT)</b>
</p><p> </p><p>My dear Jonah,</p><p>It has been wonderful corresponding with you these past few months. I was delighted that we were finally able to meet in person at the get together last month, with Shelley and the others. I do hope you enjoy the copy of Endymion you asked after, though I have my doubts, for the critics felt there much was to be desired.</p><p>Now, I am sending this letter with an ulterior motive, for which I hope you will forgive me for the lack of pleasantries. You had mentioned that at your new Institute, you were collecting stories, but not just everyday stories, ones that people tell around a bright, and warm hearth, but ones that are only mentioned in hushed tones, and in shadowed corners. </p><p>I must confess Jonah, I have a tale I must share with you.</p><p>It all started when I was eight, and my father was killed by a horse on his way back home, from visiting George and I at school. I knew when father left us that day, that he would not be back again. A feeling settled over me, cold, and dark, and knowing. His end was near, and there was no preventing it. I knew of my father’s death before it happened. I could not tell you how or why I knew that fact, Jonah, but I did. You are the first person I have confided that to in all of the years since it had happened, and even writing it down to you now, I feel a chill in the air, colder than just moments before. </p><p>I have had that feeling on quite a number of occasions over the years, generally at larger gatherings, if to a much lesser degree. I will confess, and you may call me a coward, but I have never gathered the courage to ask after the poor souls I encountered during those engagements, but I do not hold high hopes for their well being. I, perhaps luckily, only had that feeling so strongly two other times, besides with my father, which was just before both my mother and brother died. Both were, as you may have heard, sick for quite some time before they succumbed to their illnesses. So, when I felt that similar dread settle in my stomach, I knew their suffering would soon end, as much as I did not want them to go. I felt especially sorrowful for poor Tom, whom I still miss dearly. </p><p>Now this… darkness, on its own, may not warrant a story for your shelves, but unfortunately, there is more to this tale. Part of which I do not wish to utter, for fear that if I pen these words to paper it shall only make them true. But another part of me, the part that wishes to be rid of this feeling, hoping that by telling you, it may help expel this growing sense of doom that has been welling up inside me. </p><p>I suppose there is nothing for it, I shall write this down for you, and hope for the best. At the very least, I know my story will be left in good hands. </p><p>The final visit to my mother, where I felt that weight in my stomach return, that darkness, that knowledge settle over me yet again, and I won’t bore you with the details of how that last visit continued, but when I went to leave, after giving, what I knew to be, my final parting, I had a different sensation come over me. A feeling of something slick, and dirty against my skin. I will admit to you, that I did not hesitate to flee my mother’s sickroom at that point. As soon as I was out and in the fresh air, the feeling slipped away, leaving me shaken but it seemed, otherwise unharmed. </p><p>I had hoped that would have been the end of it, Jonah, but, like in so many other things in life, I was wrong. </p><p>I had the now, unfortunately familiar feeling of dread when I visited Tom that last time, which brought me a deep sadness, but I was secretly relieved that his suffering would end soon. I leaned over to give him one final kiss on his sweat slicked brow, and that same oily, dirty sensation I felt in my mother’s sick room, slid over me. Only this time, it was a hundred fold stronger. My stomach roiled, and I recoiled hard enough to back into the wall, staring at my brother in his deathbed as if he had transformed into some mythical creature, there to drag me into the fiery depths of the underworld. </p><p>I will not lie to you, I fled from that room, terrified of what I felt. This time, rather than the feeling sloughing off me like a snake’s shed skin, it clung to me, like a foul stench that refused to dissipate. </p><p>My dear brother Tom died, on the first, December of last year, and that feeling has not left me. No matter how many times I scrub and clean, I feel that layer of filth on myself, and it will not go away.</p><p>I know, deep down, that there is naught you can do for me. This was something that I brought onto myself, through what means, only God may truly know. For, I have developed a cough and an ache in my chest I cannot shake, and My dear Jonah, I fear I am next. I cannot, at this time, know if that final feeling of dread will be a blessing or a curse. Time will surely tell. </p><p>Affectionately yours,</p><p>                        John Keats</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</p><p> </p><p>[Deep shaky breath] End of Statement. Wow. That… really doesn’t get any easier. And Keats, christ. This brings his illness, and death into a whole new light. Because this has Corruption written all over it, which, I mean, would make sense, but there is something else at play as well… maybe the End? With that knowledge of death beforehand? The only thing that really makes sense. Oh, Oh <b>god</b>. That knowledge of his own death really might have been a blessing. [Clears throat, reciting] ‘Severn—I—lift me up—I am dying—I shall die easy; don't be frightened—be firm, and thank God it has come.’ </p><p> </p><p>[Heavy sigh] I - yeah… Yeah. I still can’t believe we have a statement from John Keats. I wonder why it doesn’t have a statement number, and how it ended up on my desk. Jon has been out of the Institute for at least a week now, away again on some...research or another. Maybe I’ll bring this to Elias… he might know where it came from. </p><p> </p><p>End recording.</p><p> </p><p>[CLICK]</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Feel free to find me on <a href="https://kristsune.tumblr.com/&gt;on%20tumblr&lt;/a&gt;%20and%20on%20&lt;a%20href%20=">twitter</a> and on <a href="https://kristsune.tumblr.com/">tumblr!</a></p><p>And Martin absolutely knows John Keats dying words by heart, you can fight me on this.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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